The Cosmic Clues (9 page)

“I live in a small town in Uttar Pradesh,” she began in Hindi, and with a tiny start of surprise, Sonia realized that she was literate. “My husband—Tusharji—did all sorts of odd jobs, but he could never stick to anything permanent. One day, he told me that he had bagged a fantastic job, one which would change our fortune. The only hitch was that he would have to leave Uttar Pradesh and go to Pune. I was unhappy about this job but I had no say in the matter. In our community, we women simply obey orders of our in-laws. My husband went off and wrote to me occasionally. But in his letters he never once mentioned his job, where he was working or living. This was almost six months ago. For the last two months, I've had no letter from him, no news, and I began to get worried. I thought perhaps he'd been thrown out of his employment and that he was ashamed to tell me about it. So I set out to bring him back home. But . . . but . . . the moment I arrived in the city, I bought some
Potatovada
to eat, wrapped in this newspaper . . . and I saw . . . this—” Neha's voice broke as she indicated the photograph in a soiled local newspaper.

Jatin immediately produced a glass of water and Neha accepted it gratefully. Sonia and Mohnish glanced at each other. His face held a questioning look. Sonia took the newspaper from Neha, studying the obituary.

“I understand your predicament, Neha,” Sonia sympathized, “but tell me, are you positive that this man is Tushar Gulati?”

“I can swear on God that this man is my husband!”

“And do you know why this photograph has been printed in the paper?”

Neha sniffed tearfully and nodded. “Mohnishsaheb has explained to me. But how is it possible? How can my husband be in any way connected with this Kapoor woman? And they . . . they say he is dead? I don't understand! I simply don't understand! Oh, what am I to do? I'm so terribly confused!” She choked over her tears.

Sonia did her best to comfort Neha but the woman seemed inconsolable. Finally, Sonia gestured at Mohnish to come out into the other room, leaving Jatin to do his bit as she carefully closed the door behind her.

“What do you think
now
?” Mohnish asked.

“I'm glad I trusted your judgement,” Sonia replied with a half smile. “That poor woman is almost broken with frustration and misery. Where will she put up, while we adopt our course of action?”

“At the Naari Kendra, of course!”

“Good, because this may take a few days. I shall have to consult Inspector Divekar since he is handling the Kapoor case. It could be a rather unpleasant situation—finding out if the dead man was indeed Tushar Gulati. Bigamy is not uncommon these days, you know, but proving it, especially when the man is dead, could be extremely disagreeable!”

“Do you think this is what it is—Bigamy?” Mohnish asked curiously.

“It is a possibility one must consider. However, if it's my intuitive opinion that you are seeking, then no, I don't think it's Bigamy. I suspect foul play. But my suspicions, until proved, are quite baseless.”

“So what's your next line of action?” Mohnish asked, folding his arms.

“To meet Mrs. Kapoor, find out what I can about her married life, if she permits me to, of course. In the meanwhile, I think you should take Neha to the Kendra.”

“But what about her horoscope? Don't you need it to proceed on the case?” he asked, a trace of innocence in his tone.

For the first time, Sonia burst out laughing—a healthy, bubbly, youthful laugh that chimed like a bell. Mohnish waited patiently for the peal of amusement to subside.

“Well?” he asked. “May I share the joke?”

“Actually—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be rude.” She looked up at him with twinkling eyes. “It's just your assumption—”

“But you're the one who works with horoscopes!”

“Yes, I do,” Sonia said in a more sober tone. “But it's not as if I
hunt
for horoscopes at the first scent of a crime! I treat Astrology like a map
when
I arrive in a city—a map that will guide me and help me navigate myself in the desired direction. However, before I embark on the journey to that city, I need to gather information—knowledge about the journey as well as my destination. Initially, I work with facts and investigation. Then if I reach a deadlock or a fork in the road, I use my map—which shows me the precise route or alternate options. At the moment I am still at the predestination stage and I have no intentions of vaulting over facts!”

“Got it!” Mohnish grinned sheepishly.

“I'm not saying I may not need Neha's or Tushar's horoscope,” Sonia pointed out. “I may resort to Astrology, at a later stage, after I have given enough opportunity and scope to my fact-finding, investigative capacities and when I need to reconfirm or reconstitute my findings!”

“You're trying to tell me that Astrology is not the magic wand most people might make it out to be. In your policy, Astrology goes hand in hand with the facts.”

“Precisely. Some may regard my technique of solving cases with a great deal of suspicion and perhaps even disbelief, because they don't believe in the science of Astrology. But, to tell you the truth, such an attitude bothers me the least. Such people are merely unaware that the Vedic Astrology principles and predictions are the outcome of thousands of years of statistical study of the magnetic cosmic forces and their effects on our lives. Anyway, my total belief in the science of Astrology sanctions my modus operandi. To put it plainly, Astrology delivers the goods to those who believe and study it, and I believe, study, and practice it!” She did not add that she'd been rewarded with results. Because of Astrology, she had seen her mental confusion dissolve, her arguments keel over, and answers emerge out of a blank horizon. No, she wouldn't tell him about it. Words would merely undermine the value of her personal experience—a premise secluded from prying eyes. Instead she turned to him and smiled. “Let's not waste any time. Our Independence Day is surely an auspicious day to knuckle down and begin cracking this problem!”

Mohnish straightened with alacrity. “Right! I'll be on my way! And you'll keep me posted on your progress? I'll call you up from time to time.”

Sonia nodded.

Mohnish hesitated. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Actually, I ought to thank
you
for trusting me to find Neha's husband,” she responded.

“That was not a problem. Surprisingly, I do trust you.” Mohnish stared at Sonia, as if gauging her reaction. Then he smiled. “Well, see you later, then.”

Sonia stood still for a moment, feeling his presence even after he'd left. Which was odd . . .

Jatin stepped out into the outer office. “Neha is okay now,” he informed Sonia. “But, Boss, I was right, wasn't I?”

“Right?”

“About not taking a holiday on Independence Day? We have a new case!” Jatin pointed out, unable to contain his excitement.

“You were absolutely right!” Sonia agreed wholeheartedly.

The autorickshaw—a three-wheeler scooter—trundled over the bumpy Sinhagad road. The smell of diesel seemed to fill the auto, as it chortled and grunted noisily. Seated on the brown cushioned seat which had a big tear in the middle, revealing the stuffed cotton underneath, Sonia glanced outside. Her eyes flew from the piece of paper in her hand to the passing buildings. Although Inspector Divekar had taken a day to ferret out all the details of the case for her, he had given her exact directions to the Kapoor residence.

Vehicles zipped past, unruly and uncontrollable in the morning rush, but the driver of the autorickshaw nonchalantly managed to avoid brushing sides with his road-fellows. He whistled, unconcerned, as the vehicle jumped and steadied over small ditches.

“Slow down a bit, please,” Sonia told the rickshawwala. The driver slowed, passing a bakery, a laundry, a chemist, and a vegetable mini-market. “You can stop here,” she said, as she spotted the Kapoor house.

The auto jerked and halted by the side of the road.

“How much do I pay you?” Sonia asked, as she rooted around in her handbag for a copy of the tariff card.

The driver, in a khaki shirt, and a handkerchief tied around his forehead, glanced at the meter.

“Thirty rupees,” he replied casually.

“Thirty!” Sonia exclaimed. “Are you sure? Where's your tariff card? It's supposed to be pasted on the back of your seat.”

“Madam, have some trust!” the rickshawwala remarked a little indignantly, in the regional language, Marathi. “Children tear it off, so I can't put the tariff card on the seat.”

Sonia found her card and checked the rate. The fellow was charging two rupees more than the normal rate. “It's twenty-eight rupees!” she told him sternly.

The unabashed rickshawwala smiled carelessly. “What, Madam, everything is so expensive, can't afford anything, and then, what is two rupees for people like you?”

“Why, do I look as if I grow money on my head, instead of hair?” Sonia asked him sweetly. She slapped the exact amount on his hand and stepped out of the auto.

The rickshawwala shook his head and drove away, muttering at the miserliness of rich people. Sonia threw a resigned look after the receding auto. Basically, she hated haggling over trivial matters. But this was more a matter of principle than just two rupees. Anyway, with her van gone for maintenance for the day, she had little choice but to travel by public transport. With a sigh, she turned to the Kapoor residence.

For a few minutes, she observed the house, before passing through its small, rusted gate. It was a ramshackle building, looking almost as if it had been hit by a gigantic hammer. The walls were discoloured and revealed damages. Certainly a very old house in need of serious repairs.

Sonia walked up the overgrown path and rang the doorbell. Immediately, a melodious tinkling, most incongruous with the dilapidated structure, receded into the house. Footsteps hastened towards the door and it was opened by a housecleaner.

“Madam is not at home,” she explained, in Marathi, before Sonia could utter a word.

“When will Mrs. Kapoor be back?”

“She's gone out with Jaidevsaheb and said she would be back soon.”

“In that case, I'd like to wait for her,” Sonia replied.

The maid shrugged and silently made way for Sonia to enter. The girl was attired in a red printed cotton sari with the bottom half of the pleats tucked in at the waist to avoid hindrance. Apparently, she was sweeping the house.

The room was small—a neat sitting room with relatively new furniture. A small two-seater sofa set, a thick red square rug, and a landscape on the wall comprised the decorations of the room. On the wall opposite hung a garlanded photograph, that of a smiling near-profile of a man. A backlight shone on his shining hair. It was obvious that the photo had been arranged and clicked in a professional studio.

“This is Mr. Kapoor, isn't it?” Sonia indicated the photo with a hand.

“Yes, he passed away just recently, poor man,” the maid responded sympathetically. “Did you know him?”

“No—But I'd like to know about him. You see, I am an Investigator and—”

“You mean
Jasoos
—like in films!” The maid excitedly tucked her sari more firmly around the waist and seated herself comfortably on the floor. “But you don't look like a
jasoos,
an Investigator.”

“No, I guess I don't,” Sonia agreed with a rueful smile. “Have you been working here for long?”

“Ever since Madam arrived here. She and Saheb were looking for a
bai
—a maid, so they spoke to the Kulkarnis, who told their maid, who told my sister. She said to me—‘Uma, you've lazed around for too long, here's a nice job, take it!' So I accepted it! And I've been so fortunate, both have been such wonderful people!”

“And when did you first come to this house—I mean, how long ago?”

“Sometime in March. I remember, I asked Madam if she wanted me to help her make pickles or anything else but she wasn't interested. She never made jams or pickles, like the rest of us women. I think all the time she simply thought about Kapoorsaheb!”

“Was Mr. Kapoor unwell?”

“Oh no, he was a fine sturdy man and healthy! But alcohol can ruin a person!” Uma spoke knowledgeably. “Not that he used to drink all day. He drank occasionally, but when he did drink, there was no controlling him. They had loud quarrels, so that all the neighbors could hear them shout and screech at each other! We fight too—my husband and I—but even we maintain a kind of decency! At least my husband never goes to other women with his worries!”

“You mean that Mr. Kapoor was in the habit of going to other women?”

“Oh no!” Uma exclaimed hastily. “I meant that he would behave funny. You won't mention this to anyone? You look like a decent woman, yourself, so I can tell you the truth! Kapoorsaheb would come to me and blabber a lot of strange things—I blush to tell you what he would say in his drunken state! He told me that I reminded him of someone. That he had lots of money and would give it all to me. It was very indecent talk for a man of his stature and class, with a beautiful wife like Madam and me just a poor housecleaner! But he was a nice man. I'll never forget what he did one day. He came into the kitchen after one of those terrible fights, held my hand, and slapped some money onto it, asking me to use it all on my children! It was very wonderful of him, but of course, I didn't take his money. I gave it to Madam. After all, it isn't right to take advantage of an intoxicated man. Poor though we are, we have our principles!”